


After a Swim

by Scriptserpent



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Multi, Team Fluff, the budding of a relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-16 22:10:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13063182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scriptserpent/pseuds/Scriptserpent
Summary: After an involuntary swim, all Napoleon wants to do is fall into bed and lick his wounds in private. Team mates make that difficult. Especially when you don't fight it





	After a Swim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JordanUlysses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JordanUlysses/gifts).



> I apologize for any errors; my shift key stopped working halfway through this so you may see some smushed words. A gift for JordanUlysses- I took two of your gift requests and sort of combined them, I do hope you like it!

Napoleon opened the door to the hotel room they had been assigned, scrunching his face involuntarily as he reached for the door handle. His ribs throbbed sharply with the movement and his electric pain sprinted from his palm and through his forearm. He was almost certain now he had fractured his fingers and his wrist at this point. In his hesitation he wondered how he was going to flit through the hotel room without being seen. He really didn’t feel like a lecture. From either Gaby or Illya. A flicker of a thought- to leave and not let him be seen in such a state- buzzed through his mind but he shook it away and stepped through the door. No one was in the common room and Napoleon’s shoulders dipped in relief. 

Ignoring the lights, he took his gun out of his pocket, putting it silently on the credenza next to the ice bucket. All he needed was a bit of ice, a heavy glass of something, and then he could go stow himself in his room to lick his wounds in private. 

Napoleon cast a glance at their bedroom, the eternally engaged couple, and checked for a light. Not seeing anything or hearing any movement, Napoleon slowly slipped out of his suit jacket, tutting silently and the rips and bloodstains, and avoid jostling any of his injuries. He didn’t need to exacerbate them without any reason. The jacket slipped from his fingers and he eyed it. He’d grab it in a moment. His head hurt and bending down seemed like a terrible idea. Turning back to the ice bucket, Napolen opened it and glanced inside. He and Gaby had used it earlier, and some lone ice cubes like minnows floated in the water. Using his left hand, he awkwardly fished the ice out, depositing it into the waterlogged handkerchief from his pants and held it to his hand. 

Mission accomplished, he glanced about the room for the whisky they had bought a few days ago. It was sitting in the corner by the phone on the opposite side of the room and suddenly that seemed too far away. 

He had pulled himself out of a river and walked home nearly a mile, and crossing the room was what was about to set him over the edge. Napoleon sighed quietly, forcing himself to move. He was just going to take the bottle now. Screw the glass. Walking over he realized how much his thigh hurt. That moment of standing still in front of the ice buck had been the first moment of rest in the last few hours and now the aches hidden by adrenaline were coming to light. He grabbed the bottle and kept walking, now sure that if he stopped that was it. He was going to tumble to the ground exhausted. He had a first aid kit in his room. He could worry about patching up the laceration from the knife on his arm there. And in the morning when he felt like himself and could wave off concern with an easy smile he could face Gaby’s worried eyes and Illya’s angry ones.

Ah. The jacket. Napoleon stopped, staring at it. He had to get it, or Illya would definitely come find him. And there was something about seeing disappointment in his eyes that made his stomach twist painfully and really Napoleon was far too tired to analyze that, thank you very much. 

There was the rattle of the key in the door and Napoleon realized with sharp electric remembrance that he had left it unlocked. He really had been knocked about, hadn’t he? Before he could decide whether he should dart forward and snatch his gun from the credenza, the door opened and the overhead light of the room flickered on. 

It was Gaby and Illya. Delightful. 

“Oh, you’re–“ Gaby began and then cut herself off, pausing from taking her jacket off. Illya stared at him, sizing him up with his icy blue eyes and Napoleon raised the bottle higher. Illya locked the door before striding over, overtaking the room in three steps. 

“Did you go swimming?” he asked wryly, eyes flickering to the cut on his arm. 

“Does he need a doctor?” Gaby asked, glancing at the suit lying on the floor. 

“No, I do not think so,” Illya said and Napoleon frowned. 

“He is perfectly able to be asked such,” Napoleon reminded them. 

“Are you alright?” Gaby asked before disappearing into the bathroom.

“I’ll be fine,” Napoleon replied before turning to Illya whose eyes had gone dark and his lips were pressed thinly together. 

“Sit down,” Illya said, grabbing Napoleon to the couch and pressing him down to sit. “Did you go swimming?” he asked wryly. 

“It’s beautiful weather for it,” Napoleon countered, frowning when Illya pulled the bottle from his hand and set it on the coffee table beside them. “Or at least the gentleman who threw me in thought so. He was taller than you which, to be quite honest I didn’t think was possible, so now I suppose we know that we’d be evenly matched in basketball.”

“You are babbling,” Illya said as Gaby returned with a metal first aid kit. 

“I suppose I am,” Napoleon admitted. He leaned back into the couch pillows, wincing at the change of pressure on his ribs and let out a long breath, closing his eyes for just a moment. 

Cold hand on his skin made him jolt, and Napoleon cursed. He opened one eye, but Illya had turned to look at the first aid kit. 

“What happened?” Gaby asked, handing Illya gauze. 

“If I didn’t think Emerson was doing something with the books before I’m sure he is now,” Napoleon said eyeing Illya as he picked up the scissors. “What are you doing with that?”

“I am cutting away the fabric from the wound,” he stated blandly. “Would you rather I do it with a knife?’

“I can remove it,” Napoleon protested, sitting up straighter and began to unbutton the blue dress shirt with his left hand, the buttons sliding clumsily between his fingers from the water and blood. “You just want to cut my clothing up.”

Gaby gently pushed his hands away, taking over the task for him. “It makes him feel happy,” Gaby agreed. She bit at her lips, keeping her smile schooled as Illya shot her a dark look.

“There’s no reason to take your frustration out on my shirt,” Napoleon grumbled. 

“It is already ruined,” Illya protested.

“To the untrained eyes” Napoleon countered, but rescinded the comment when he caught Gaby’s gaze. “Fine. It’s totally irreparable. Go ahead and cut it to ribbons.”

Gaby helped him out of the shirt, noting how slow he was moving and asked, “Is something wrong with your hand?”

“Fractured,” Napoleon hazard. 

“I’ll go get some ice,” Gaby said, unlocking the hotel door and leaving with the ice bucket. 

Illya took a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the kit and leaned forward, inspecting the wound. Napoleon watched his hair shift with the movement and looked up to the ceiling instead. 

“Emerson is hiding something, you think?” Illya asked, and Napoleon could hear the glug of the alcohol before it was pressed coldly against the cut. 

“Well someone tried to kill their new accountant,” Napoleon said, eyes tightening as Illya dabbed at the wound. His teeth tensed on the consonants and he ground out, “and they weren’t hired street thugs.”

“Do you think they know who you are?” 

“No– what are you trying to do scrub at it?” Napoleon said, looking down at Illya again.

“I am cleaning it, would you rather do it?” Illya argued. 

“Yes, hand it over.”

“No. You do terrible job.” Illya inspected the cut and pressed gauze to it. “It must be stitched.”

“Lucky,” Napoleon muttered and watched Gaby return to the room with the ice bucket before grabbing a wash cloth from the bathroom and bundling ice into, setting it atop Napoleon’s hand. 

“Emerson’s dirty?” She questioned. He held the gauze in place for Illya as he moved on to examine the cut over Napoleon’s eyebrow, just along the hairline. 

“Or he really hated his newest accountant,” Napoleon repeated. He knew Illya’s hands were cold, but somehow as they gently grabbed at his head and jaw to angle his head correctly, they felt hot. And his fingers left to grab more cotton balls the absence was burning. 

Gaby took his bad hand, cool and comforting as she examined the purple bruising with a frown that wrinkled her nose. “Are you sure it’s not broken, it looks bad.”

“We will get to that later,” Illya muttered and pressed the alcohol to the cut on his head. It had mostly dried by now and was tacky. “Where else are you hurt?”

Napoleon opened his mouth but was cut off by Illya adding, “And if I find out you lied about anything I will let Gaby do the stitches.” 

Well that wasn’t fair. For someone with such clever hands her needlework was atrocious. Napoleon usually mended any garments for rips or holes. And he was clever with needles on people too. Usually barely a scar. Gaby snorted, “he can do it himself.”

They were both brutes. “May have cracked ribs, took a knock to the head. Possible fractured hand and bruised wrist.” He paused wishing he had the glass of whisky and added, “Cut to the arm and something’s wrong with my thigh. Maybe sprained ankle. That’s all I am a ware of.”

“How many?” Illya asked as he put on the bandage to his head. 

“Three. I got knocked over by the car which put me at a disadvantage.”

Illya looked down at him sharply, and Gaby’s fingers clutched the couch. “You got hit by a car?” she asked, voice low and angry. 

Napoleon blinked at that, mouth working uselessly as he fumbled for the right words. “Didn’t I mention that?”

“No,” Illya said flatly. 

“Well then. There you go.”

Gaby began to mutter under her breath in German, the words ‘idiot’ being repeated often. He huffed and she shuffled closer, looking at his ribs, fingers grazing over the tender skin. She smelled like warm spices and his stomach grumbled, realizing he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“Take this,” Illya said, handing him two white pills and Napoleon squinted at them. 

“What is this?”

“Percodan. We have syringe for local anesthetic too.”

Napoleon eyed the pills. Normally during a mission he would never take something like that unless it was a grave circumstance. Alcohol was fine. He new how to work around alcohol and how much he could drink. But painkillers he was never sure. 

“They’re not that strong,” Gaby said.

“Then how is that better than whisky?” Napoleon eyed the bottle sitting all alone on the table. 

“Whisky does not lower inflammation,” Illya said simply and Napoleon hesitantly took them into his own hand, swallowing them dry and grimacing at the bitter chemical aftertaste. 

“They taste worse,” he complained. Tipping his head back, as Illya was done with his medical ministrations there, he looked for patterns in the plaster. Eyes trickling over the repetition of beige and white and yellow, he jerked when he felt fingers in his damp hair. 

Gaby looked at him questioningly and he gave her a reassuring smile. “A bit on edge Ms. Teller.” She just smiled at him and pushed his curled hair to the side. 

“There. You look far more like your usual self.”

“Wrap his ribs,” Illya said handing Gaby the gauze. She took it and cool hands slid to his chest, moving back the fabric of his shirt. He almost wants to ask then why their being so nice to him. Finally he can feel the exhaustion of the day pull at his muscles and his bones feel like they’re full of hot dry air.

“Well we have an in now that they think that their new accountant is dead,” Napoleon said. “What’s the next move?”

“Too tight?” Gaby asked. 

“No,” Napoleon said. 

“Your leg is bleeding still. I am going to cut away the fabric.” Illya said and Napoleon felt the cold metal.

“You’re just looking for an excuse to cut my clothes off,” Napoleon said with a wink. And it was dangerous the look he got from the wall of a man in front of him. Tall, deadly, and with gentle hands– and…wow those drugs were working very fast.

“Blackmail?” Gaby suggested. She finished wrapping his ribs and rubbed at his shoulder. “More ice?” Napoleon shook his head and she walked around Illya, sitting on Napoleons left side with her feet drawn up. She watched Illya’s hands work with focused eyes.

“Let him think he was successful for a few days,” Illya said and peeled the fabric back, putting the scissors down with a clatter against the coffee table. Napoleon passed him the bottle of rubbing alcohol. “It will make him stupid.”

“You said that with such joy in your voice I think that comes second to snipping apart my pants.”

“I should let you do it yourself you are fine,” Illya grumbled. He swept the cotton over the cut and eyed the injury critically before slathering it with ointment. “You’ll be down for a day at least.”

“Pity it won’t be in front of the pool.”

“You already went swimming,” Illya reminded him and bandaged his thigh, taping the pad down. 

The veins in his hand looked like blue rivers, Napoleon thought to himself. 

Gaby appeared in front of him with a warm washcloth and he wondered when she had left. Illya had moved from his thigh and was looking back at his arm.

“You’ve got dirt on your face and you don’t look like you’ll be able to stand for a shower on your own.”

“I could use a partner then,”

“Not this time,” Illya muttered. Napoleon turned, half asking something before Gaby wiped his face with the cloth and then his hands, pulling the red from his skin easily. 

“It’s slowing down,” he heard Illya say and felt gauze on his skin, rough and sharp smelling like antiseptic. He never liked being in the hospital. At least here his nurses were cute.

“You’re a swell guy, Kuryakin,” he muttered, falling back into the cushions and feeling Illya’s knuckles accidentally brush against the bone of his shoulder.

“Swell?” Gaby questioned and her soft laugh sounded like summer. Like the honey sunshine in a kitchen early in the morning. Like the heat of embers of a low fire in winter.

He hummed, letting his eyes flutter close.

“He looks terrible,” Gaby said.

“He will look worse tomorrow,” Illya said. “Unfortunately did not hit him in head hard enough. He will keep talking.”

“You don’t mean that,” Gaby said, voice faint like she was walking away. 

“Come on Cowboy,” Illya said and two large hands were around his arm and shoulder, helping him up. Mostly by himself as he was nearly dead weight. 

“Not percodan,” Napoleon muttered as he slipped against Illya’s shoulder. He smelled like leather from his jacket.

“Perhaps not,” Illya said, half steering and half carrying Napoleon to the bedroom.

Napoleon thought about that for a moment. “Ass,” he finally decided and blinked dazedly when Illya began to laugh. “What?’ he asked tartly unable to find the humor as he sat down on the edge of the bed, knees shaking in exhaustion.

“Nothing,” Illya said and helped pull his arms from his ruined shirt. “I thought you may have fallen asleep.

Gaby came back in with Napoleon’s pajama bottoms. “Here,” she said, handing over the fabric. 

“I can do it,” Napoleon muttered and took the garment from his hands. Gaby gave Illya a look and then retreated to the bathroom. Illya folded his arms, watching Napoleon shuffle with the pajama bottoms, getting them low on his waist by his own. He left his socks on because in the scheme of things, it really was insignificant. “Why are you being nice?” he finally asked.

“I am always nice,” Illya said.

Napoleon laughed, though it was cut off quickly by the sharp pain of his ribs. “I won’t complain,” Napoleon said.

“You already are.”

“Well I don’t tend to keep promises.” Napoleon leaned back against the pillows, opening his eyes when Gaby tapped against his ankle. “What?”

“Move over. You’re on my side.”

“What?” 

“You need to wake up every few hours. You’re sleeping with us.”

“Us?”

“Us,” Gaby said half crawling over him to push him over and then settling down under the sheets. He could feel her warmth this close. “How’s your head?” She asked.

“Fine,” Napoleon answered.

“Good.” 

When he glanced over at her he realized she was silently staring at Illya, having a battle of wills through thin lips and pointed brows. He finally sighed, unfolding his arms and said, “let me clean up first.” 

Napoleon closed his eyes after that, somehow pulled into the dark warmth of the drugs. It felt like eternity but lost in thoughts of blue ice and brown rocky shores, he reached out, snagging his fingers on fabric when he sensed movement.

Pale eyes studied him. 

“Don’t go,” he muttered.

Illya stayed still as stone, but rigidly nodded, sitting upright next to him. Napoleon felt too warm from the drugs and left his hand on Illya’s closing his eyes as he drifted back asleep.

“Thank you,” he was sure he said, but he fell asleep too soon to know if he got a reply.


End file.
